


All I See

by Havingfun_ISKEY



Category: Video Blogging RPF, natewantstobattle
Genre: Angst, Blood, California, Cult, Dark, Depression, Drug Addiction, Drug Dealing, Drugs, F/M, Fanfiction, Hallucinations, Hollywood, Horror, M/M, Murder, Music, NateWantsToBattle - Freeform, Natemare - Freeform, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Obsession, Psychological, Songs, Suicide, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Thriller, YouTube, dagames - Freeform, mandopony - Freeform, nathansharp, openff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2019-08-23 09:53:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16616723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Havingfun_ISKEY/pseuds/Havingfun_ISKEY
Summary: Musician Nathan Smith used to have everything he wanted. With a dedicated following and his closest friends by his side, his freedom in the music industry never seemed more apparent.That all changed in the course of a single night. Two months after an inexplicable car accident, Nate struggles to understand the direction his life has taken-an accident that not only left him on the brink of death, but forever destroyed everything he thought he knew about his past. A voice within him begged for more-to sacrifice his old name, and his old way of life-and embrace the legacy he had denied himself from for so long.At the stroke of a pen, he is transformed into Nathan Sharp-a successful, revered celebrity enamored with the riches and popularity that now surrounded him. But Nathan Sharp soon finds out that the lifestyle of the rich and famous isn't everything it seems to be. The same friends that granted him his status have more than one trick up their sleeves to hook him in and keep him trapped. Exposed to a dark new world of psychological torment, Nate slowly becomes a pawn of his own self-destruction-and the music industry as a whole.





	1. Chapter 1 - StopRewind (Scene 1)

After the accident, the doctors had told Nathan Smith that the mind coped with trauma in mysterious ways. Nightmares, they said, were a remnant of his PTSD—fragments of horrific memories jumbled together to interpret what he had since forgotten. But if they could have somehow known what he had been through, perhaps they, too, would understand that things were never so simple.

For hours on end, the same thoughts ran through Nate’s head as he leaned forward in his train seat, staring at the ground with a vacant, unblinking face. If he remained in that position for the entire ride, then perhaps no one’s eyes would wander to him, lingering on the silent, broken man they vaguely recognized from the morning newspaper. The faint vibrations of the tracks below pulsed through his legs as steady as a heartbeat.

It seemed like everyone in the train still noticed him, though, and through their stares he could feel them documenting every breath that left his body. Nate was hardly surprised. Living in Los Angeles meant that every stranger, was, in their own way, a reporter, and every action was on display. But the last thing he wanted now was to answer any more questions as to what had happened that night, not when he didn’t know a single detail more than what they did. They already knew it all.

_ “Attention. We are five minutes from our destination. Please be prepared to unboard in a timely manner. Thank you for choosing MetroLink as your transportation.” _

Nate blinked away the fuzziness that had gathered in his vision. It had been almost two hours since he had seen anything but the dirty wood tiles and the lint from the seat in front of him. Slowly, he lifted his head and straightened his posture, every movement calculated to draw the least amount of attention from any potential onlookers. The scenery of the train bloomed into life as Nate’s senses sharpened, and he looked around, hungrily taking it all in. It all rushed into him at once. The gentle murmurs of conversation and the constant hum of the train tracks chased away the numbness that had settled under his skin, and for a moment, he almost felt at peace.

As Nate glanced around the train car, he felt a heated stare from the row across him press into his skull. With a small pinch of dread, he looked back and met the gaze of Andrew Stein, who seemed to have had his eyes fixed upon him for at least a while. The other man’s expression hardened into a scowl as he looked away, his right hand fidgeting with the wedding band around his finger.

A knot of pain constricted around Nate’s heart, and he forced himself to turn his focus to the window beside him. The city’s center seemed all the more grand when one was just outside its grasp. It was the same view he had longingly gazed upon hundreds of times before—skyscrapers dotted the landscape, and the  _ Phoenix Records _ executive building towered proudly above them all, hovering so close to him that he could have reached through the glass and touched it. He should have felt happy—proud, even, of what he was about to accomplish. But instead, a numb emptiness pressed into his skin and made him feel colder than the Los Angeles mornings. 

As though done by cue, a congress of ravens emerged from behind a building and took flight, their glossy black feathers shining from the rising sun. Nate watched them travel through the sky with the faintest amount of intrigue. Within seconds, the flock grew larger in size and approached closer to the train until their bodies dotted the horizon like stars. Perhaps it was simply his imagination, but they seemed to be watching him, too.

He became almost certain of it when one of the ravens landed on the ledge outside his window. The action made him freeze in place. The raven’s beady eyes observed him as he gingerly reached for his phone. With a shaking hand, he aimed the phone at the window and opened the camera, waiting for just the right moment before he pressed the button.

_ Click. _

Like a lightning strike, the flash from the camera blinked across the small space. Nate jumped in his seat at the sudden noise and lost his grip on his phone, sending it skittering across the floor. Every single eye in close proximity seemed fixed on him as he kneeled down and picked it up, trembling so hard he nearly dropped it again. Two hours of his life he’d wasted not making a sound, only for it to be rendered worthless by a stupid picture of a bird.

Beside him, Shawn Christmas momentarily took his focus off his laptop. “Like the scenery or something?” he asked wryly, his passive expression barely concealing a smirk.

Nate flinched. There was no doubting Shawn’s talent as a musician, but in conversation, he was surprisingly tone deaf. His high-pitched voice seemed to carry throughout the small space in the train.

Once more, Nate’s focus slowly drifted to the train window. Roads and buildings crept past and out of sight, the motion slowing as the train prepared to stop. “It’s fine.” He carefully studied each landmark, examining the flashing neon lights and counting every billboard-bearing advertisement he saw. “The same as it’s always been.”

Shawn didn’t respond. The clacking of keys filled the room as Nate leaned his head against the glass. It vibrated against his skull as he closed his eyes, steadying his breathing in hopes of envisioning anything else. Anything was better than the purgatory that laid on the other side of the window.

“This city’s a fucking mess.” Shawn ran a hand through his jet-black hair and flipped it over his shoulder. “Twelve hours I’ve been here and I’ve already witnessed two potential murders, gotten stuck in four traffic jams, passed three gay bars, and was stopped for ‘suspicious behavior’ more times than I can count. And I thought Orlando was whack.”

Nate simply shrugged. “Welcome to Los Angeles.”

Awkward silence stretched between them once more. Nate wondered if they were both thinking the same thing. There was a part of him that begged him not to say another word, not when there were so many people there and even more opportunities to lose. It was the same voice within him that played upon his insecurities, gleefully mocking him for the disloyalty and contempt he showed towards his home city. He wished that he could agree. There had been a time, back when he had first arrived, that things had been different, and he had been hopeful of what he could accomplish and what the future would bring. Those days seemed so foolishly impossible now. Each year wore down upon that brightness until nothing but cynicism and bitterness remained. And frankly, he was hardly ashamed of his judgmental attitude. It was Los Angeles, and everybody judged one another.

As a ray of sunlight shone through the window, the raven from before settled at the front of Nate’s mind. He fished his phone from his pocket and opened Twitter to make a new post. For a moment, the raven’s menacing stare pierced him through the screen as though the picture had come to life.

**_Nathan Sharp_** _✓ @NateWantsToBtl * 10s_

_ Look at the cool birb I found _

Nate quickly shut off his phone and went to stash it back in his jacket, but the screen lit up just before he could do so. Usually he would ignore notifications until later, but now, he inexplicably felt the urge to look. What he saw made him wish he hadn’t.

**_Andy Stein_** _@AndySteinMusic * 30s_

_ Replying to @NateWantsToBtl _

_ That bird looks like it’s going to kill you _

A chill crept down Nate’s spine at once. Whipping his head to the side, he once again found himself almost face-to-face with Andy. The other man’s gaze wavered the slightest amount as they locked eyes, the corners of his mouth twitching before he abruptly broke away.

Nate rolled his eyes at the interaction, almost more annoyed than disheartened. His “friend”—if he could even call him that—was quite willing to put up a pleasant face on social media, but once the tabs were closed, he wouldn’t so much as acknowledge that Nate existed.

And that damn wedding ring... _ again. _

After taking one last glance out the window, it became clear that the train was going to stop any minute. Shawn closed his laptop and stood up, nudging Nate on the shoulder. “Come on.”

Nate stared at him blankly.

“Might as well gather everything up now so we can go before everyone else loads off,” Shawn told him. “It’ll be faster that way.”

Nate understood what he meant at once. “Of course.”

Gripping the arm of his seat, Nate attempted to ignore the flush of embarrassment in his cheeks. Shawn extended a hand to help him, but Nate simply shook his head and hoisted himself up. He was simply thankful his friend didn’t say anything more. While neither of his legs had been broken in the accident, walking was still particularly difficult, and it wasn’t exactly helping that Nate refused to use the walking aid the hospital had provided him with. Between potentially spending the rest of his life with a minor limp and swallowing his pride to travel through the streets with a cane, Nate would choose the former in a heartbeat.

The train came to a halt several street lengths from the  _ Phoenix Records _ building. Shawn grabbed his guitar case and swiftly moved down the aisle, leaving Nate and Andy standing awkwardly mere feet from each other. Andy made a quick gesture for Nate to go first.

Nate took a deep breath. It was ludicrous how something as simple as walking down a train aisle could be so nerve-wracking for him, but it was just one of many new challenges he had gotten used to. Before anyone else could go before him, he moved away from the seats and began to shuffle down the aisle. 

People’s eyes seemed to fall upon him at once. This time, however, Nate head his held high, keeping his focus straight ahead on the exit. He stumbled over a piece of baggage sticking out from one of the rows of seats, and a small wave of panic ran through Nate as he fought to contain his footing. It was hard to believe that only seconds had passed since he began walking. Every small step made him feel like a prisoner on death row.

“Wait.” 

There were only several feet between him and the exit before a hand grasped his arm from behind. Nate stifled a scream as he whirled around and found Andrew Stein standing directly before him, his deep brown eyes glimmering with a vulnerability Nate had never seen before. “Wait.” 

Nate’s senses immediately kicked into overdrive. He thrashed, attempting to pull himself out of Andy’s grip, but Andy only held on tighter. Time seemed to freeze, and the entire train was silent. Nate didn’t dare speak a word.

Andy’s voice was little more than a whisper. “Don’t ever think that you need to sacrifice who you are for someone else. You’re enough.”

Nate stared back at him with awe. The ghost of Andy’s fingertips still pressed into his skin after he had let go, igniting his veins with warmth. Behind them, Shawn cleared his throat.

“You’re holding the line, you two.” Shawn gestured to the exit and passed both of them an irritated glare. There seemed to be something else hidden within the look, but if Nate were to guess what it was, he would not be able to put a finger on it.

One by one, the three men stepped off the train into the city.


	2. Chapter 1 - StopRewind (Scene 2)

The city itself seemed to be holding its breath as Nate, Andy, and Shawn walked through the streets. Crowds nearby, once bustling and tangled together, stepped aside as the three walked past and huddled amongst themselves, speaking in low, fervent whispers. People in Los Angeles always had something to talk about, something so treasured that gossip never ran dry. Their topics of interest were so omnipotent that they existed not only in words, but in the magazines scrunched in their hands and the billboards bolted to the ground.

Even though Nate had gathered enough confidence to leave his home for the first time in weeks, he still instinctively ducked his head when passing by a small group of strangers gathered around an alleyway’s opening. It hardly made a difference. He could still feel their heads turn in his direction and whisper his name; their flashy, glamorously-colored outfits and makeup were barely visible in his peripheral vision.

“Well, then,” Shawn said as they made their way through a crosswalk, “I suppose that’s another thing I can add to my list. ‘Group of weirdos in clown costumes’, check.”

Nate kept his mouth shut and put on his earbuds. He didn’t know how to tell Shawn that as a resident of the city, he wasn’t exactly familiar with seeing such things, either.

“Let me set the record straight,” Shawn continued. “See, the whole thing about this situation is that I don’t particularly mind living in a shithole state infamously known as the breeding ground of stupidity. I can put up with a lot. But have me pack my bags and fly halfway across the country to potentially live in  _ this _ madhouse, you’re giving my patience a real run for its money.”

Nate and Andy exchanged a knowing look. The train ride may have prevented Shawn from openly voicing his contempt for all things Californian, but there was no escaping it now. Nate gritted his teeth and turned up the volume on his earbuds.

“Oh my god, don’t even get me started on Will and his stupid  _ Masked Records.”  _ Shawn paused, seemingly gauging Nate’s reaction. “They’re like  _ T-Series. _ Came out of fucking nowhere, rapidly took over, and are now shoving their success in everyone’s faces despite nobody asking for them to begin with.”

“Speak of the devil,” Andy muttered.

Nate stopped dead in his tracks and followed Andy’s gaze across the street. He’d been so deadset upon the  _ Phoenix Records _ building that he’d failed to notice an electronic billboard several that stood stories high. His heartbeat quickened upon catching the sight of bright, piercing blue irises that glowed from the billboard they were scanned upon.

_ Will Ryan. _

Tingles crept down Nate’s spine the moment he thought of the name. Before him stood the man himself, posing so confidently against the bold background with the guitar that had been with him every step of his journey to stardom. While most advertisements in Los Angeles were saturated with fakeness, Will’s white and easygoing smile made him look genuinely happy. It was a stark contrast to the large red text screaming the word “MISSING” directly below.

Shawn scoffed beside him. “Well, would you look at that. There’s the guy who singlehandedly ruined our careers.”

Over the blood pounding in his skull, Nate hardly heard him. Neither Shawn nor Andy held so much as a shred of admiration towards the young celebrity, but to Nate, Will was everything. Like Nate, Will himself had once been a YouTube musician, struggling to overcome the adversities the platform had thrown before him. But where Nate had failed, Will had succeeded. Together, Will and several other channels—many of which were Nate’s distant friends—ventured to Los Angeles and formed the  _ Masked Records _ to showcase their work, leaving a storm of success and popularity in their wake. Compared to Will, Nate was nothing but a grain of sand in the sea of Los Angeles—a failure. Such a fact made him awestruck whenever he saw the outline of Will's features, studying his face for minutes on end as if the ink would come to life and help Nate achieve the same status.

Aside from sleep and drugs, Will stood as his only anchor in life, the sole salvation keeping him tethered to shore. There was something about the celebrity that enveloped him like a snare and pulled him under his spell, and quite frankly, Nate didn’t understand it himself. For one reason or another, Nate felt as though he and Will shared a powerful and intimate bond, one so deeply rooted in mystery neither of them could begin to imagine.

Nate’s daydreaming was interrupted when a bright mass of color gathered around the billboard. Instantly, he recognized the velvet draperies from the strange group of people he’d encountered just before. He caught a glimpse of their faces for their first time. White foundation plastered their skin like a veil, and thick black eyeliner surrounded their eyes. They huddled in a semicircle around the screen, joining hands as though they were deep in prayer.

The man in the center spun around at once. A second later, so did the others, and Nate took an involuntary step back. To Nate’s surprise, they didn’t seem at all bothered that a stranger had been spying on their strange little ritual. Instead, they... _ smiled. _

“Nate!” A distant call behind him made Nate turn his head. Across the block, Andy and Shawn struggled to push through the morning commute. Nate rolled his eyes as they caught up and turned back to the group of men to apologize, but the words got caught in his throat. They were nowhere to be found.

Andy approached him and ran a hand through his neatly combed hair. “You’re doing it again,” he hissed. “The staring.”

“Uh-huh.” Nate scowled as Andy's gaze burned into his soul, a painful reminder of the man's presence hovering over him like a raincloud. But now was not the time to risk losing his temper.

 Distractedly, Nate scoured the landscape in search of the peculiar man, only giving in once he began receiving strange looks from people passing by. He held back a sigh. Nothing the doctors had warned him of suggested he would be seeing things that weren’t really there, but he supposed that was what he got for neglecting sleep.

At long last, Shawn broke through the tension, his voice rising above Nate's scattered thoughts. "You know, I still don't really get what you see in him, Nate." He sounded disappointed—which, at that point, was a much more welcomed alternative to Nate than Andy's bitterness. "A few months ago, I swear to God, you hated the guy with a passion. Now you're trying to follow the exact same path he did, record label and all. What the hell happened?"

Nate forcefully bit back his exasperation. “We don’t have to do this at all,” he replied coolly, hoping to shut Shawn’s objections down. “We could spend the rest of our lives under  _ Give Heart Records _ and everything would be totally fine. But wouldn’t that be kind of boring?”

Shawn's lips pressed into a thin line, speaking his next words slowly. “That doesn’t even make any sense. Sure, it’s small, and it’s not like we’re going to break any records, but at least we have complete control over what we want to do with our careers. Why are you so willing to gamble that away?”

Right away, Nate could see past the frustrated act he put on, which was hiding a layer of hurt. It had been Shawn's idea to create  _ Give Heart Records _ , and to make Nate his equal partner in the label. Shawn had been there when Nate had vented about never being able to be taken seriously as an artist, and it had been Shawn who had put countless hours into mixing each of Nate's songs all by himself. To throw all of that away for something bigger, which Nate had sworn he would never do, was an act of betrayal.

Then again, such an action was to be expected if Nate wanted to get anywhere with his career.

“Just forget it.” Finally tearing his gaze away from the billboard, Nate made his way down the remainder of the street, always remaining a step or two behind Andy and Shawn. The conscious effort he was making to avoid them made him realize just how far the three of them had grown apart from one another. He really wasn’t surprised. It seemed as though no one understood the way he felt. 

Only a few seconds passed before Nate found his line of sight trailing the ground, allowing the pedestrians ahead of him to guide him as they walked across a road. It was for that reason he failed to notice the raven swooping towards him until it glided within inches of his face, gracefully ascending into the sky again. He barely held back a scream.

“What in the absolute—!” Shawn exclaimed as the raven flew directly between him and Andy. “Jesus, now your  _ birds _ are psycho too?”

By then, Nate was no longer paying attention. He watched as the raven soared through the skies, weaving between buildings before perching atop a streetlight in the distance. Standing directly below it was the same peculiar group from earlier, looking back at him from across the street with cold, dead eyes.

Nate’s breath hitched in his throat. It wasn’t a mistake—they were watching him. His legs slowed by their own volition until he came to a stop in the middle of the road. Around him, he was vaguely aware of the people shouldering past him to cross, but they soon faded away into the background.

A shrill scream snapped him out of his daze. The crosswalk was totally empty, and the pedestrians that had passed by him seconds before now stood safely on the sidewalk with their mouths wide open. All the blood drained from his body as he realized what was about to happen. He turned just in time to catch a glimpse of the taxi hurtling towards him, little more than a streak of yellow in his peripheral vision as every limb in his body became completely paralyzed.

A hand grabbed him from behind and yanked him back onto the pavement. The side of the car brushed past him as he was pulled back. Nate bit back a cry as fingers dug deep into his shoulders and spun him around,  _ hard, _ so hard he could barely breathe. A combination of blinding pain and terror gripped him as Andy loomed over him with a look of pure, unbridled rage on his face.

“Holy shit, Nate! What in the hell were you  _ thinking?”  _ Andy’s voice cracked the slightest amount on the last word. He shook Nate like he wanted to emphasize his point, and Nate didn’t dare try to stop him. Out of all the time they’d spent together—even in the past few weeks since the accident, where Andy had inexplicably burned every bridge that once stood between them—Nate had never seen Andy look so mad before.

It was beyond horrifying.

Andy finally lowered his voice. “You listen close, because I’m not going to say this again.” He shook his head slightly as though to clear his thoughts before leaning forward, closing the distance between them until he hovered inches from Nate’s face. “I...I can’t keep saving you. Do you fucking hear me?”

At those words, Nate became speechless, rigid with shock. Every tendon in his body was lit on fire once more, although this time, the feeling was far different. He choked down a response before it could leave him, and he wasn’t sure if he was about to laugh or cry or both.  _ You were never there for me. _

But instead of saying so, Nate simply gave him a nod.

The answer seemed to satisfy Andy; he released his grip on Nate’s shoulders and walked away. Nate had no doubt the man had already buried his memories of the event, pushing them so deep down that they would never be able to resurface.

Shawn gawked at Nate. “What is it with you and cars, man?”

When the worst of the tension had subsided, Nate followed the path Andy had taken to the  _ Phoenix Records _ building. He was relieved to find that most of the onlookers nearby had already lost interest, one by one turning their heads and shrugging him off as a mild inconvenience. And that pleased him. Being labelled as such meant that he would be quickly forgotten about, and in Los Angeles, that was an act of mercy.

Just then, it occurred to him that in all that commotion, he had forgotten entirely about the strange group that had been watching him before. He quickly scanned the streets, hoping to find a trace of their bright linen clothing, but there was none to be found. Whoever they were, they had already disappeared.


	3. Chapter 1 - StopRewind (Scene 3)

There was something inexplicably wrong with the  _ Phoenix Records. _ It was the first of many things Nate noticed upon entering the building—along with the odd formality of the staff and the heavy tension that hung in the air—and it carried with him through the corridors until he stood right outside the executive office doorway. He put his back against the wall and waited, listening to the muffled shouts that passed through the closed door.

He’d only just discovered that he would be facing this alone. Shawn had been directed to a separate room, and Andy had vanished to God knows where before either of them could reach the entrance. Not like it bothered Nate in the slightest what those two did—no, it was simply unfortunate that out of all the applicants that day, he had been the one chosen to be interviewed by the owners of the company themselves.

_ How lucky of me. _

“You may come in now, Mr. Smith.”

Taking one last breath, Nate picked up his guitar case and stepped into the room. He’d barely made a move before a beam of sunlight struck his face, and he forced himself to not look down. It hurt like  _ hell. _ Sunlight poured into the interior from the windows stretching the floor to the ceiling, making the white walls glow blindingly bright.

Whatever he had been expecting when he had first applied to the  _ Phoenix Records, _ it was far from what stood in front of him. Chills raced down his spine as the three executives looked at him. They seemed more like living corpses than actual beings—their skin, sagged and lined with wrinkles, clung to their bones, and their hair had thinned and turned gray with age. A musty smell wafted in the air, and Nate wasn’t sure if it was from something inside the office or from the woman executive’s perfume.

Somehow, Nate managed to guide himself to the empty seat opposite the executive’s desk. His focus wandered around the room before falling upon the vinyls and posters lining the walls. They seemed to glare down at him from above, pressing him further into his seat with judgmental superiority.

A small grunt pulled his attention back to the executives. The old woman was bent over in her chair, the muscles in her shoulders straining as her fingers dangled inches from the ground. Nate followed her sight near the desk to a pair of glasses. He hesitated, waiting for one of the other executives to retrieve them, before biting back a sigh of frustration and pushing his seat aside.

“Here. I’ve got it.” Nate reached beneath him and picked up the glasses, holding them out in one hand over the desk. To his confusion, the woman made no move to take them. A sickening feeling pinched his gut as her dull, colorless eyes raked up and down his arm, and so he placed the glasses directly before her.

The woman came to life immediately. Before Nate could pull away, she lashed out her arm and pinned his wrist to the table. A sound like a gunshot rang out from the impact. Nate recoiled, blind panic racing through his body as he tried to wrench free, but the executive didn’t let go. Instead, her lips curled into a disgusted snarl, and she traced a grimy finger over the tattoos running down the length of his arm. 

At last, the woman released her grip. Nate stumbled backwards and practically shrank into his chair, and with his hands still violently shaking from her touch, he tugged at his sleeves until they concealed the entirety of his arms.

“Welcome, and what a pleasure to be working with you today,” said the woman in a crisp, robotic tone. “My name is Cecilia Brady. I own the  _ Phoenix Records _ along with my husband, Monroe Stahr. The two of us, along with our assistant Wylie White, will be interviewing you.”

Nate nodded numbly. He couldn’t believe how quickly Mrs. Brady and her colleagues disregarded what just happened, but frankly, he was too tired to care.

Mrs. Brady gave him a condescending smile. “And I assume you are…”

Mrs. Brady’s speech came to an abrupt stop. Her eyes squinted as she looked over the documents, momentarily glancing at Nate before adjusting her square-shaped glasses. Behind them, the clock ticked repeatedly as Nate continued to hold his breath.

After what seemed like hours, Mrs. Brady croaked out a word. “...Nick?”

Nate blinked in disbelief. “My name’s Nate.”

“Ah. Yes. Nate.” There was yet another long period of awkward silence before Mrs. Brady cleared her throat. “Now that we are introduced to each other, we are looking forward to hearing about your career. Tell me about yourself. What got you into music?”

Nate glanced down at his guitar case for reassurance. "I grew up as an only child," he started. "My parents tried to get me into a lot of things - you know, sports and stuff—but I was always more interested in the arts. It was just...quieter, I guess. Eventually my parents caught on that piano was one of the few things I was not only good at, but actually enjoyed. So they actually encouraged me a lot to continue that passion, and I finally stepped out of my comfort zone by playing at concerts. Then I saw  _ Green Day _ live at—"

“—We don’t need a life story, Mr. Smith.” Mrs. Brady interrupted him by holding up a hand. “Speed this up a little.”

Nate flinched at her response. “I suppose there isn’t much to say. I’ve been involved in music for a majority of my life. It’s what I went to school for, it connected me to most of the people I know, and it’s shaped who I am as a person. It defines me.”

For a moment, there wasn’t any response. Mrs. Brady simply examined him with a pondering expression, her eyes empty as she sighed and pulled out a pen. “Very well.”

The room fell quiet after that. An unnerving thought came to Nate as he watched the three executives browse through his resume, intermittently breaking focus from the papers to stare at him through the corners of their eyes.

“I must admit, Mr. Smith, your resume, in some conditions, is particularly top-notch,” said Mrs. Brady over the stack of documents in her hand. “It should go without saying that we expect the highest from our applicants, but many of them in this day and age treat music as a phase rather than a lifetime commitment. Your numerous years of studying and training under various music programs clearly display your competence in the industry.”

Nate’s heart skipped a beat. The tension that had built up in his muscles slackened, and he leaned forward in his chair the slightest amount.

Mrs. Brady looked up at him through her square-shaped glasses. “That being said, it unfortunately appears that any concrete data regarding your audience and public work is rather...lacking.”

Something within Nate deflated at once. “Oh, yes, about that.” He coughed into his arm, trying to regain his composure. “I noticed on the application there was no area to list social media information or accomplishments. I assume you’ll be asking for those during the interview, right?”

The executives stared at him blankly. 

“You know…the internet,” Nate explained, dumbfounded. “YouTube, Twitter—”

“—Oh, I see,” Mrs. Brady said, cutting him off once more. She smiled. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Smith. Things are run slightly different here at the  _ Phoenix Records, _ and it’s simply not a credential we take into account.”

Nate raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re forgiven,” said Mrs. Brady.

“No, I don’t—I don’t understand.” Nate sputtered out the words, struggling to comprehend what had just been so plainly laid out for him. “Surely I misunderstood. What do you mean, it’s not taken into account?”

None of the three executives acknowledged his question. In the few seconds Nate had taken to respond, they had already turned their backs to him. Annoyance flared inside Nate as Mr. White left the room and returned with a pot of coffee, rather generously filling cups for his colleagues. He must have seen Nate eyeing the pot, because he gave Nate an icy glare and slid it out of reach.

“Well, that’s quite simple enough,” Mrs. Brady said after a long sip of coffee.  _ “ _ The  _ Phoenix Records _ runs on a policy of judging all of its potential clients through only the most rigorous, fair, and valid standards. This policy has not changed in all of the years we’ve been operating, and it has served us and our artists well far before the formation of the internet.” She smirked. “Surprisingly, my dear, your parents and their parents found dozens of ways to prove their capabilities to our company, none of which involved the inclusion of a pretentious data system that purports illegitimate talent.”

“Millennials,” grumbled Mr. Stahr.

To that, Nate was speechless. Their answer pressed into him like dead weight, crushing him as he sank further into the back of his seat. His voice was flat as he slowly spoke the words he’d been dreading to hear. “So my online profile doesn’t matter at all.”

“Unfortunately not,” said Mrs. Brady, her lips twisting into a smug smile. “But I’m sure that, with someone of your aptitude and expertise, this minor setback will be of little inconvenience for you.”

Nate nodded grimly. “Of course.”

Once more, the three executives turned their backs. Still, Nate could hear their whispers, hushed at a level that made it quite clear they cared not if he overheard. He knew then that coming to the  _ Phoenix Records _ had been a mistake, and perhaps it would have been better if he had tried to argue for his channel. 

Mrs. Brady frowned as she turned her swivel chair to face him, flipping to a different section in her stack of papers. “As you are likely already aware, this is one of the largest and most prestigious record labels in all of Los Angeles. Many artists are interested in licensing with our brand, but very few have proved themselves capable. It is rare to see a musician without previously established connections or abilities make it far enough to be legitimately considered.”

Nate chuckled nervously. “Oh, well, I assure you, I certainly have credentials—”

Mrs. Brady held up a hand to stop him. “—Perhaps. We have yet to see your abilities, or any indication you’re a fit for us beyond simple passion.”

She made a pointed look at his sleeves.

“So, tell me, what makes you think you’re capable? What makes you, more than anyone else we may consider, more cut out for a path that few achieve or deserve? Why should we care?”

Nate froze. “Well, alright.” Panic raced through his body as he tried to string together an answer that didn’t involve his work on social media. “I’ve gone on my first tour, collaborated on multiple projects, and formed my own record label.”

“You said you own a record label?” Mr. White’s face sparked with apparent interest and he sat up straighter in his chair. “Huh. You don’t seem like the type.”

“Well, I did,” Nate corrected him. He paused, flushing. “It was an independent one. But it was one of the most important experiences of my life.”

Mr. White narrowed his eyes. “I see.”

There was another long and awkward pause. Nate squirmed uncomfortably as the executives scribbled in their documents. He could tell they were rather disappointed.

After a minute or two, Mr. White cleared his throat. “So you mean to tell me no major organization would give a deal to a young, intuitive entrepreneur in the pop industry?”

Nate stared blankly at him. “Excuse me, what?”

“Well,  _ supposedly, _ sir, you’re ambitious, possess the skills of a trained professional in the field, and have many years ahead of you to contribute to any organization you desire,” Mr. White explained with a deep frown on his face, emphasizing words as though what he was saying should have been obvious. “That is precisely what mainstream entertainment is looking for, and yet you ignored that in favor of working alone?”

“Oh.” A horrible feeling crept under Nate’s skin. “I don’t make pop-oriented music.”

All three of the executives went completely silent. This time, however, it was a different, more dangerous kind of silence—one where tension crackled in the air like static electricity. It was only broken by Mr. White’s gruff voice, growling at him through his false teeth. “What?”

Mr. Stahr scoffed at him. “Oh, so you’re one of  _ those  _ people.”

“Excuse me?” Nate asked, but the question came out weak and shaky.

“Come now, darling, don’t be so rash.” Mrs. Brady laid a hand on Mr. Stahr’s shoulder and looked at Nate. “My husband is simply concerned for your well-being. It surely can’t be easy diverging from a tried-and-true formula to cater to an audience with your...what genre do you do, then?”

Nate ducked his head. “Uh...punk...alternative rock,” he mumbled.

Mrs. Brady snapped her fingers.  _ “There  _ it is.”

“You’re not actually surprised, are you?” asked Mr. Stahr to the other two executives. He gestured at Nate. “Look at the kid. He has more tattoos than a drug dealer on the south side of Chicago.”

A rush of embarrassment and shame burned through Nate as he instinctively ran a thumb under his sleeves. He could still feel Mrs. Brady’s claw-like nails trail down his arm and pierce his skin. To him, tattoos were a treasure, a form of expression that belonged to him just as much as any other part of his body. But in that moment, they were a mark of shame—a scar.

A strange realization occurred to Nate as he lifted his head and looked at the posters tacked to the walls. For the first time, he noticed that each of the artists depicted on them were all pop stars. Not rock, not country, hardly even rap or hip-hop—but  _ pop,  _ a genre so restrictive and exploitable that most of its songs had become indistinguishable from one another. It was then that Nate finally understood. Not a single one of his accomplishments meant so much of a damn to them, not when he actively rebelled against every standard they expected of him. Unintentionally, he, Nathan Smith— _ NateWantstoBattle _ —posed a threat to their profitable, orderly business.

What a fucking fool he’d been.

“You seem...distracted, Mr. Smith. Is something bothering you?” Mrs. Brady’s fake-cheery voice pulled Nate out of his thoughts. Her clouded, glossy eyes tracked him around the room and pinned him into a corner.

Nate laughed and shook his head, trying to regain his composure. “I thought—”

“—No need to continue your sentence, Mr. Smith,” said Mrs. Brady. “Your ideas aren’t needed around here.”

“But it’s my  _ life.” _ Nate stared at her in disbelief. “I’ve built my entire  _ career  _ around the music I’ve come to enjoy, with a YouTube channel and an audience that supports my work sometimes more than I do. And yet you look at what I’ve built, only to laugh in my face and tell me that it’s nothing. Where’s the honesty in that?”

“YouTube channel,” repeated Mrs. Brady as she adjusted her glasses. “You’re one of those YouTube musicians.”

Nate hesitated before answering. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

For a few seconds, everything was quiet as the three interviewers just looked at him, and then looked at each other. Mrs. Brady was the first to start laughing. Mr. Stahr and Mr. White followed her. It wasn't just small chuckles, either—Nate was genuinely concerned that Mrs. Brady was in hysterics as she used a tissue to wipe tears from her eyes.

“You must be  _ NateWantstoBattle,” _ Mrs. Brady choked out as she set down her tissue. “How did I not realize? It all makes sense now.  _ You’re _ the one that everyone’s been on about.”

_ They knew.  _ Shock tingled through Nate’s body, spreading until it settled like a poison under his skin. All of the confidence he had summoned over the past month evaporated like the morning dew in that single moment. Ever since the accident, every detail pertaining to his life and career had been laid bare, pieced together by the reporters that swarmed him every time he showed so much as a fraction of his face in public. It had taken every shred of bravery and desperation he could gather to face it—to risk his sense of security in the city and have a second chance at establishing his reputation—but it haunted him wherever he went. It was for this very reason he hadn’t left his home in over a month.

“I’m not that famous.” The words were barely more than a whisper. If things had been different, Nate might have screamed at them—screamed until they finally gave a damn about what he had to say. But now, after everything that had happened, protesting would be the action of a far superior man to himself.

Mr. Stahr shook his head, clearly still in delightful shock. “Mr. Smith, the only reason you’re not ‘famous’ is because all your YouTube friends have left you behind.”

Nate’s mouth went dry as Mr. White spoke. “Do you know why we don’t like YouTube, Mr. Smith?” He sighed. “It’s because they turn nobodies into somebodies. You have these immature, talentless adolescents—all the people from the  _ Masked Records, _ especially—sitting in front of a camera they got for Christmas and making a career out of being foolish. Kids eat that stuff up. Meanwhile, those same web stars get bored with their millions of subscribers worth of fame and decide to invade on our business, making record labels and turning the mainstream into a joke. Do you see the problem here?”

“I don’t think I understand.” Nate's voice sounded far away, uncertain and powerless compared to this group of individuals who held the power to determine his worth.  _ You're failing, you're failing, you're failing.  _ The muffled sounds in his head had turned to ringing, piercing his ears and sounding more like an alarm warning him of danger with each passing moment.  _ You're nothing to them. _

“Christ, this kid’s obnoxious.” Mr. Stahr turned to face his wife. “Come on. This is wasting our time. What more could you possibly say?”

But Mrs. Brady didn’t give him a response. To Nate’s surprise, she appeared genuinely pitying as she looked at him, searching through him with curious eyes. “An honest question, Mr. Smith. If you don’t have your YouTube channel, then what’s left of you?”

It was only one question, one short, pathetically simple question, but Nate would never be able to answer it. For the older generation, YouTube was a social media platform, destined to forever be seen as a waste of time. One look behind the scenes immediately proved otherwise. There was an entire community of YouTubers who had held together a standard of talent and ingenuity, but slowly, over the years, it had fallen apart at the seams. With the site’s demonetization and short attention span for channels that didn’t upload daily, content creators had been forced to abandon their values to maintain an audience and a reliable source of income. Some prevailed and became more popular than ever, but others never were able to fully recover.

And then there was a third group, the ones who left the site completely and banded together to form the  _ Masked Records. _ There was only one reason Nate was not among them. Too scared to take a risk, too set in his own ways, he’d hid within the safety of his YouTube channel. Now it was too late for him to join them, and he was left to drown until he was forced to pull himself out of the water. Without the  _ Phoenix Records, _ he would be nothing.

So he said the one thing he could think of to say, his voice so quiet that it was little more than a breath that left his lungs. “I don’t know.”

His response seemed to stir something in Mrs. Brady. She frowned, leaning forward in her seat and folding her hands on the desk. “Look, Ned—”

“—It’s Nate,” he said with a sigh, rolling his eyes in exasperation. 

“Oh, whatever.” Mrs. Brady waved a hand dismissively. “As I was saying,  _ Nate, _ the point I was trying to make is that you’re simply not ready.”

The force of her words hit Nate like a slap in the face. He opened his mouth before closing it again, too much at a loss for words to be able to defend himself. The executives continued to smile at him, their faces so frozen in the expression that they seemed like cardboard cutouts.

“Mr. Smith, if there is one thing you would learn from working under me, it is that you are expected to uphold a high level of obedience and proficiency, nothing more, nothing less.” Mrs. Brady’s voice was low as she leaned across the desk. “There is no room for mindless experimentation. Either you will follow that, and you will allow it to guide your every step through this city, or the music industry will not be kind to you. This is not the internet anymore.”

Nate’s mind went numb as Mrs. Brady continued to speak. “If I were you, I'd abandon the whole YouTube schtick, meet with some professionals in the business, and get yourself some connections before attempting to apply to a record label like this one. Take a look inside yourself, son. See why people are not willing to work with you.”

“So that’s it? You’re not even going to let me audition?” Nate stared at them, wide-eyed. “You’re just going to let me go?”

Mrs. Brady gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Smith.”

Just like that, it was over. Nate struggled to speak, wanting to plead with Mrs. Brady to let him stay, but she had already shrugged and resumed work on her documents. Behind him, he could vaguely sense Mr. Stahr and Mr. White waiting to escort him to the door, as if he couldn’t be trusted to walk the measly five feet on his own. Slowly, Nate stood up, gathering his things and taking one last look around the pathetic, pitiful excuse of an office whose white walls would be forever seared into his brain.

“Oh, and Mr. Smith?”

Mrs. Brady’s shrill call made Nate stop dead in his tracks. Ever so slowly, he turned around, fixing a dark, empty glare on the elderly woman sat before him. Every feature on her face was relaxed as she stirred her coffee. She finally glanced up and curled her lips upwards the smallest amount. “Do try to leave the area before nightfall. The strangest things tend to happen after dark.”

With one final glance, Nate turned his back on her and walked away.


	4. Chapter 2 - Wolf in Sheep's Clothing (Scene 1)

The streets of Los Angeles gradually grew colder under the setting sun. As darkness spread over the horizon, people left in large numbers until the surroundings were mostly barren, save for a few stragglers that hung closely to one another, conducting business that Nate could never be sure of. Even then, they were still far, far too much.

Nate wandered aimlessly around the city over the course of several hours. Slowly, he breathed in the cool evening air, basking in the feeling of walking without a constant shadow. He had needed to be alone since that morning to think over everything that had happened. So much had changed for him in just a few hours.

A group of strangers briefly stopped talking as Nate made his way past, and Nate had to push back a wave of terror as they momentarily scanned his body. His mind now moved in a chaotic state of unrest, his thoughts scattering to instability the moment someone so much as laid their eyes on him. He subconsciously pulled at his sleeves, wondering if they had the same words in mind as he did—if they too had read what had been reported and now viewed him with the same scorn and discontent that had been branded upon him.

_ Pitiful. _

_ Embarrassment. _

_ Disgrace. _

When Nate had first left the house, he had desperately tried to quell his anxiety, hoping that enough time had passed to where the public would no longer care about him like they first had. There had been no sign of him for a month, after all, and Will’s disappearance being announced so shortly after his accident should have pulled all of their investment in him away. But it didn’t. What Nate didn’t know was that people still very much cared, enough so that his repeated incidents in the morning had renewed discussion of him all over again. 

Word spread remarkably fast. After the interview, the  _ Phoenix Records _ executives had been all too pleased to supply them with details of his interview. And of course they had spun the story out of proportion, painting him as a fool—a talentless, insignificant fool who was an imbecile for even  _ thinking  _ he could come in the way of their perfect, prissy little company (their words). But weren’t they right? Was there any other way that the situation could have possibly ended? Oh, they’d sure showed  _ him— _ if there was anything that he’d learned in the past twelve hours, it was that there  _ was  _ no hope.

Something snapped within Nate at once. He broke into a near-run down the remainder of the street, ducking into an empty alleyway concealed almost entirely in shadow. In the small sliver of light that shone between the buildings, he leaned against the wall and put his head into his hands, trying to fight back the tears gathering in his eyes. 

In all the days that had passed since his release from the hospital, he’d never once cried; everything within him had felt numb and empty, detached from what was going on around him. In a way, it had protected him from the pain, akin to a blade in the skin preventing a person from bleeding to death. But now, it felt like the wound was being ripped open all over again.

With his head bent down, Nate didn’t see the raven flying towards him until it landed at his feet. He stared at it for a moment, watching as it stood stiller than a statue, and Nate did a double take. Surely it couldn’t have possibly been the same raven he took a picture of before, but his gut told him otherwise—that knowing stare was unmistakably familiar. This time, however, he felt no fear—only rapidly increasing curiosity.

“Hey, little guy,” Nate whispered.

The raven tilted its head.

“Guess you’re lonely too, huh?” Nate’s heart sped up slightly as he waited to see what the raven would do. It seemed to give him a suspicious look, as though it was attempting to figure out Nate’s intentions. After a few seconds, it hopped closer.

Nate cracked a small smile and held out his finger. “Yeah, I get you. People are shit sometimes. I don’t know why I bother.”

The raven seemed to let its guard down entirely. Nate gently stroked its back as it perched on his finger. “But that’s alright. It can just be the two of us.” He paused. “Nate and Pluck.”

At the announcement of his new name, Pluck cooed happily. Nate inspected him down to his wingtips. Every part of him seemed light and fragile, reminding him of the origami crane he had found sitting beside his hospital bed after the accident. It was a symbol of healing, he’d learned—although he’d never found out who gave it to him, he saw something within Pluck that touched him the same way.

Nate shook his head. “Jesus Christ, I’m talking to a fucking bird.”

The reaction was almost immediate. Out of the corner of his eye, Nate saw a black dot fly from the sky and land on the ground. Then another. And another. It kept on going until there was an entire flock of ravens swarmed at his feet, feathers bristled in aggression and their black bodies rippling like a sea of death.

Pluck turned around and flew away.

“Hey! Wait!” Nate pushed off the wall and began chasing after Pluck. The rest of the ravens scattered as he ran through them. He mentally cursed himself for caring so much about a goddamn bird—something with no emotional capacity to truly reciprocate human feelings—but there was something peculiar about him that Nate had to try and understand.

All at once, the ravens took to the sky and formed a trail behind Pluck. Nate slowly came to a stop, watching as they flew further and further into the distance until they came to rest at a place that made his heart stop—the shores of the Los Angeles River.

_ No.  _ Nate’s throat tightened as he looked at the river, and for a moment he almost forgot how to breathe. It seemed like a dark omen that he was unwillingly within walking distance of the very place that had destroyed him just two months ago. He closed his eyes and felt himself be carried into the past, back to when he’d been dragged by the waves and pulled under the current, the blaring of police sirens being the only sound that cut through the murky waters.

A distant clamor interrupted his darkened thoughts. He turned and saw people emerge from the dark, piling over each other and staring at him with wide, joyful eyes. For a moment, Nate’s heart soared as he mistook them for the odd strangers he’d seen clamoring in front of Will’s billboard, before a second look made it plummet straight back into the ground. They’d found him.

The forefront member of the reporters grinned from ear to ear. “It’s Nathan Smith.”


	5. Chapter 2 - Wolf in Sheep's Clothing (Scene 2)

_Oh, shit._

Nate stood in shock as reality came crashing back to him. The paparazzi sprang into action, circling around him and pulling out the equipment he knew they must have been dying to use. Instinctively, he took a small step back in the direction of the alleyway.

“Alright, everyone, you know the drill.” The forefront reporter went around the group. “Matthew, you set up over there, Shane, be sure you get a good angle—wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, Mr. Smith?”

The paparazzi immediately stopped what they were doing and watched as Nate tried desperately to slip away.

“Shit, I don’t think he knows.” One of the other members glanced up from her camera. She was the first of the group to chase after him, and the others soon followed, blocking off the entrance to the alleyway just before Nate could duck inside.

“Excuse me, sir, excuse me.” The lead reporter pushed through the crowd until he was right by Nate’s side. “I’m so sorry to interrupt you, but my colleagues and I were wondering—you’re Nathan Smith, right? The musician known as _NateWantstoBattle_ who tried to sign with the _Phoenix Records_ today?”

Nate didn’t respond. 

“Unbelievable,” the leader whispered with awe in his voice, before picking up his pace to keep himself within earshot. “Uh, Mr. Smith, if you don’t mind, we have a few questions to ask you.”

Another reporter walked alongside him with a notepad in his hand. “Mr. Smith, would you be so kind to explain what drove you to put on an act at the _Phoenix Records?_ Was Cecilia Brady correct when she claimed that you were resentful towards her business?”

Nate inhaled sharply, not daring to allow himself be baited by the sensationalists surrounding him. Their culture wanted nothing more than to make a mockery of his name—a mockery as they had with their previous encounters—and this time, he wasn’t going to give them that satisfaction. He’d already learned his lesson.

The reporters continued to follow him like a flock of geese. “Mr. Smith,” another one called, “What about the comments you made during the interview? Why did you imply that you were better than most of the artists already signed to the label?”

Nate finally stopped walking. He searched for a weakness in the wall they’d built around him, and upon finding it, he pushed his way through the crowd. “Excuse me.”

“Oh, no, no, don’t worry! This will only take a minute.” The lead reporter dashed up beside him once more, positioning his lens with a suddenly frustrated look on his face. He lowered his voice. “Just smile for the camera, man. It’ll get this over faster for both you and for me.”

The white flash of the camera caused Nate to flinch. By the time his vision recovered, the leader had adjusted his expression, beaming the fakest grin Nate had ever seen. “Some life you have, huh?”

Nate stared at him, dumbfounded. “Huh?”

“Well, I mean, you’re a video blogger,” replied the lead reporter nonchalantly. He laughed at Nate’s silence. “Oh, don’t give me that look. We know _all_ about that stuff. Let me tell you something, Nate, we’ve seen the views your stuff gets, and believe me, it’s nothing to be impressed over. Getting this much attention must be a dream come true for you.”

At those words, Nate felt a sudden ache in his heart, and he turned away before the reporters could leech off his pain. The lead reporter continued taunting behind him. “No need to worry, Mr. Smith. We never forgot about you. Sure, after a month, we slowly lost the will to station outside your house—well, at least, we _thought_ it was your house until a few days ago—but there was always that lingering hope that someday you’d return. And here we are.”

“Please leave me alone,” Nate mumbled.

To his surprise, the reporters seemed to obey his request. They paused, observing him as he slowly made his way down the street. Nate breathed a sigh of relief.

“Oh my god. Look at him.” One of the reporters stared at him, stunned. “Look at the way he _walks.”_

Nate froze, terror washing over him as he followed their gazes down to his legs. Through all of the stress and anxiety running through his head, he’d entirely forgotten about the limp he’d formed from the accident. Now the reporters were looking at him hungrily, cameras poised for the moment he would begin walking again.

“Jesus, that’s perfect,” the lead reporter murmured to his colleagues. “Hey, Nate? Can you keep doing that? Keep moving. Go wherever you’d like; we’ve got about fifteen people recording you. Thanks.”

Rather obviously, Nate didn’t move a muscle. 

“God damn it.” The lead reporter gritted his teeth. “Oh come on, man, you could at least show us some bruises.”

“You don’t have to be so shy,” added another.

Nate still didn’t move. They were closing in on him now, edging closer like a pack of wolves about to devour him whole. It was either that, or he was the animal himself, and they were coaxing him to a place where he would soon be caged.

Just then, movement stirred from the shadows. A dark shape whizzed past him, and Nate barely got a glimpse of their face before they were gone. He glanced at the street lamps lining the sidewalk and silently cursed them for not turning on earlier at night.

He was distracted when a reporter tapped him on the shoulder. “Mr. Smith, what do you believe led to your rejection from the _Phoenix Records_ today? Do you agree that the company may have treated you unfairly?”

A spark of intrigue lit inside Nate. “Agree? Agree with whom?” While it was against his better judgment to engage, the question made it seem as if there was someone out there who was defending him, rightfully calling out the _Phoenix Records_ for their glittering generalities. If that was the case, he wanted to know who.

“There have been some readers suggesting that your rejection may have been the result of discrimination towards your disability,” answered the reporter without missing a single beat.

Nate stiffened. “My _disability?”_

The reporter tilted his head, puzzled. “Well, of course. Anyone can see that you’re clearly struggling to live a functional life in your current state. So perhaps maybe it would be understandable if the _Phoenix Records_ decided your mental deficiency would be a hindrance to their—”

“—I am _not_ disabled,” Nate growled. He took a large step back, filled to the brim with an emotion he wasn’t quite sure was either despair or rage. He thought he’d seen a lot of despicable things that day—rumors, insults, and indifference from his own friends—but even then, he never imagined that anyone would be that _low._  

This time, the anguish rooted deeper than any of the pain from before. The further away he tried to move, the more lightheaded he became, his brain feeling stuffed to the brim with cloudiness. He gripped the side of a building and nearly collapsed to the ground. He tried to relax, taking in long, deep breaths, but his throat had closed and turned his breathing rapid and shallow. A horrific realization occurred to him as the reporters blurred together in front of his eyes—he needed to leave, and he needed to leave _now._

“Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, wait, wait!” The lead reporter shouted as Nate limped his way through, grabbing at Nate to keep him in place.

Nate instinctively jerked away. “Let me _go.”_

But they didn’t. They just grew even more insistent. There had to be at least ten blocking his way, if not more. Did they really all give that much of a shit about him? 

As he tried to walk away, the street lamps around him lit up one by one until they formed a ring of fire surrounding the street. He desperately searched for someone nearby that was witnessing what was happening to him, but the block remained entirely empty. “Help,” he called out weakly to anyone who could hear him. “Please, please, help me.”

But it wasn’t a voice that answered him. The sound of an electric guitar rang in the air and sent the paparazzi into a frenzy, scattering away from him and towards the source of the noise. The small street was soon filled to the brim as people poured in, first curious and then rushing forward with delight. They flanked behind the group of performers parading down the street. 

Curiosity naturally drew Nate closer. He couldn’t help but feel a faint sense of familiarity from the performers, even though they were so far away. Half-running, half-walking as fast as his limp would let him, he shoved his way through the crowd until he stood a few feet from the center. The performers discarded their robes and handed them off to the other members of the group, but the pasty makeup covering their faces still remained. It was then that he understood what had provoked such a shared sense of excitement as a familiar voice flooded his ears…

Standing in front of him were not only the peculiar strangers from earlier. It was _them_ —the _Masked Records_ , the very people who had collectively taken over the entire city. They had been the ones watching him.


	6. Chapter 2 - Wolf in Sheep's Clothing (Scene 3)

_ “I hardly think I’m qualified to come across all sanctified…” _

The crowd went wild. As soon as the first of the two singers opened his mouth, they roared with excitement and formed a sort of ring-shaped stampede around the performance. Nate, however, remained silent. He simply watched with a blank, disbelieving look, even as the crowd’s energy pushed him forward.

_ “I just don't cut it with the cherubim…” _

Even after the performance had started, Nate did a double take to make sure he hadn’t been mistaken. Now with their linen robes removed, the figures of Jonathan Young, Caleb Hyles, and Richard Bichler were easy to recognize. The  _ Masked Records _ —his old  _ friends. _ They all looked so different compared to their days on YouTube—somehow, they seemed taller, stronger, and more confident, with perhaps just a pinch of Hollywood magic and saturation attached to them. Nate couldn’t quite be certain if, after just a few short months, they really had changed, or if he was simply struggling to remember them like most things since the accident. 

It wouldn’t come as much of a surprise if it was the latter. The  _ Masked Records _ was a strange, mysterious business, preferring to operate in places far away from the public eye. Not even the media knew what they were like. All anybody could say—as was said quite often—was that they roamed in the shadows, keeping to themselves and only ever coming out at night. Even then, they could disappear for weeks on end, and they were often gone by the time someone tried to approach them.

That was what Nate couldn’t begin to understand. It was clear from their elaborate setup that this had been planned, but there was no apparent reason for them to do so, not that he could think of. Out of the hundreds upon hundreds of miles in Los Angeles, and all the days in a year, they chose to do it then and there. It seemed like twisted fate had somehow brought them together, offering Nate a small reprieve through the suffering he’d endured.

Unless...it wasn’t.

“Caleb, what are you talking about?!” Jonathan shouted, and the crowd let up a cheer.  _ “There again, they're on their knees. Being worshipped is a breeze! Which rather suits us in the interim…” _

“The interim, the interim, that’s me and him! Oh my god!”

_ “It's tough to be a god. Tread where mortals have not trod…” _

Nate watched the performance with silent wonder. It felt like the storm gathered inside him had lifted—if only for a moment—as the singers put him under their captivating spell. When Caleb then set his eyes on him, he could  _ feel _ the power blessed to him from the fleeting, momentary look.

Caleb suddenly grimaced as he glanced away.  _ “Be deified when really, you’re a sham.” _

_ “Be an object of devotion! Be a subject of psalms!” _

_ “It’s a rather touching notion, all those prayers and those salaams!” _

_ “And who am I to bridle if I’m forced to be an idol?” _

_ “IF THEY SAY THAT I’M A GOD, THAT’S WHAT I AM!” _

_ “There _ you are.” A familiar voice snapped Nate out of his daze. He whirled around, and sure enough, there was Shawn, his dark skin barely visible against the night sky as he crossed his arms.

“Shawn? W-what are you doing here?” Nate asked, unable to contain the shock from his words. He glanced behind Shawn and felt a rush of relief—and strangely, disappointment—at Andy’s absence.

Shawn raised an eyebrow. “I could ask  _ you  _ the same thing.” He sighed in exasperation. “Imagine that. Forty-five minutes of searching, only to find you in the middle of a  _ Masked Records _ performance. Of fucking course. And to think Andy nearly called the police.”

Nate blinked as he processed Shawn’s words. Behind him, he could almost  _ feel  _ Andy’s presence lurking in the dark, watching him with disapproval. “You were  _ looking _ for me?”

“Are you high or something?” Shawn asked, staring at him with confusion etched on his face. “Our train home leaves in fifteen minutes. Maybe you would have known that if you hadn’t kept me and Andy on read.”

Before Nate could react, Shawn grabbed hold of Nate’s shoulder and began to steer him through the crowd. Nate stared desperately back at Jonathan and Caleb as he was dragged away, feeling his chance slip out of his fingertips.

Nate pulled back against Shawn’s grip. “I’m twenty-eight years old. I don’t need my hand held.”

There wasn’t an immediate response. Shawn stopped and turned around, narrowing his eyes in disapproval. “Well, excuse  _ me, I  _ wasn’t the one jaywalking during traffic hour in one of the busiest cities in America,” he retorted, still letting go regardless. He began pushing through the crowd. “Now come on. Any longer and my ears will most  _ certainly _ begin bleeding.”

Nate didn’t follow him. Instead, his gaze wandered back to the  _ Masked Records, _ where Jonathan and Caleb still stood. Everything else around him faded into a blur as he watched them, feeling drawn into their performance like a moth to a light. Sometimes, he could see them watching him too.

_ “So let’s be gods! The perks are great! Los Angeles on a plate!” _

Shawn turned around to face Nate and spoke with clear irritation in his voice. “What the hell are you doing?”

Nate didn’t take his eyes off the performance. “I can’t go.”

“What?” Shawn asked in a stupefied tone.

“Five minutes. Please.” Nate held up his hand. “I need to see the rest of this.”

Shawn sighed. “Christ almighty.” He put his hands on his hips. “It’s a band, Nate. They’ll be around. Time is not going to sit on its ass just because you like them. Besides, their music is shit anyways.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Nate finally pulled his focus off the singers for just a moment, struggling to rationally explain himself. “You know how people say you can never approach the  _ Masked Records _ unless they approach you first? They were watching me earlier today. I think they want something from me. And I’m going to find out what.”

There was a long, agonizing pause. Nate’s heart skipped a beat as he searched Shawn’s face for a drop of interest or understanding, but there was nothing of the sort. 

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Shawn finally told him, and Nate felt his prayers disintegrate. “They’re a  _ B-A-N-D, _ Nate. They’re an elite group of rich white kids that, like  _ most _ rich white kids, keep their circle tightly guarded from anyone who isn’t like them. That includes the both of us. What in the hell would they want from you?”

Nate froze. Around him, the beat of the music continued to swell, growing in strength until it threatened to tear apart the San Andreas fault. The crowd was joining in, swaying and dancing and shouting, and Nate was reminded of just how much he was missing out on.

_ “It’s tough to be a god, but if you get the people’s nod… _

_ “Count your blessings; keep them sweet; that’s our advice. _

_ “Be a symbol of perfection! Be a legend! Be a cult! _

_ “Take their praise, take the collection, as the multitudes exalt…” _

“I don’t know,” Nate responded, raising his voice slightly in order to be heard. “Maybe I just want to believe there’s something left for me to aspire for. I’m beginning to think it’s all I can do.”

Shawn took a step back. “Whoa, where did  _ that _ come from?” he asked. “Just this morning, you were the happiest I’ve seen you in a month. Didn’t the interview go well?”

Nate stared at him in utter disbelief. Out of all the people in the city, he would have expected his close friend to know all about the  _ Phoenix Records’ _ betrayal. An acidic taste trickled down Nate’s throat. “Oh, yes. It went just  _ peachy.” _

And with that, he turned away. The performance continued to thrive around him, and Nate let himself be whisked away in it, not allowing himself to be distracted by stagnant conversation. His hands shook like he was about to cry, but this time, he forced himself to hide it. The last thing he needed was for the media to report on that, too.

In the corner of his eye, he saw Shawn move closer and stand beside him. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Nate’s voice was ice cold, and he didn’t miss Shawn flinching away. He felt a twinge of regret in his chest. It wasn’t anyone’s fault that they didn’t understand him—not really. Yet here he was driving away practically the only person who even tried.

_ What kind of friend am I? _

“You know, I really would like to help you, Nate,” said Shawn, putting to spoken words exactly what he had been thinking. “I wish you’d let me.”

Nate laughed bitterly. He still didn’t turn to face Shawn. “Guess you’re the only one.”

“I’m not.” Shawn gestured to the crowd, his hand falling on the  _ Masked Records. _ “These people can’t fix everything for you. Believe me. I’ve been in the music industry for five years, and I know that music means just as much to you as it does to me. But it’s not enough.”

Nate looked at him at last. Shawn continued to stand close—it was hard not to in the tightly-packed crowd—but he still felt so far away. “Is anything enough?”

For a brief moment, Shawn’s dark brown eyes seemed to glitter in the darkness. “Not on its own, it’s not,” he told Nate grimly. “And that’s what you don’t seem to understand. You surround yourself with your job and cast aside every other opportunity that’s presented to you. It’s kind of concerning, actually.”

At that point, Nate could hardly hear him. Another voice rose in place of Shawn’s and snaked into his ears, sending what felt like venomous fangs piercing his heart. Andy’s words from earlier echoed in Nate’s head.

_ Don’t ever think that you need to sacrifice who you are for someone else. You’re enough. _

Nate took in a breath. “Am  _ I _ enough?”

Beside him, Shawn made no strong reaction. “Sorry, what did you say?” He made a vague gesture towards his ear. “I can’t—”

“—Don’t dodge the fucking question! I need to know!” Nate whirled around to face him before covering his mouth in shock of how forcefully he’d spoken. He immediately regretted what he’d said. The music had grown so loud that it was almost impossible to hear his own  _ thoughts. _

If Shawn had heard his outburst, he made no indication of it. He took a step closer until it was almost too close for comfort. “This is so  _ dumb,” _ he spat. “I don’t know why this has to be so difficult. Let’s just get the hell out of here and talk about this tomorrow. We have a train to catch.”

Nate leaned closer and cupped a hand over his ear.  _ “What?” _

Shawn rolled his eyes. “Oh, for God’s—” He raised his voice until he was practically shouting.  _ “NATE. WE. HAVE. A. TRAIN. TO. CATCH.” _

The molten fury that had been slowly building inside Nate finally exploded. He was sick of everything—he was sick of the music blaring and the audience screaming all around him; he was sick of Shawn’s obliviousness to everything he had gone through; most of all, he was  _ so damn tired _ of people treating him like a joke for reasons outside of his control.  _ Control _ —nothing in his life was ever under his control.

“Oh, yeah? And what comes after that?” The words tumbled out of Nate’s mouth, and he kept going, only acutely aware of people nearby slowly turning their attention to him. He couldn’t help it; he couldn’t  _ stop. _ “So there’s always something that must be done. Trains to catch, meetings to attend, jobs to complete. That’s the whole damn reason I’m here, and yet I can’t even fucking succeed at that, can I? No, because failing is never enough. People here make sure that the whole damn world knows how much I’ve fucked up, because no matter what I do, I could never be what they want most. 

“And I finally fucking get it. There is no tomorrow for me. I’m going to go back home, lock myself in, close all the blinds, and stay there, never achieving my dreams, just like I did for a whole goddamn month before you came here. I’ll never dream, because I won’t sleep; I won’t sleep, because when I do, I’ll wake up in a world that’s too good for me, a world I don’t deserve. This is my reality, and it’s a fucking nightmare.”

When Nate finally stopped speaking, he noticed for the first time that Shawn was completely speechless, his eyes wide and mouth slightly parted in shock. And he wasn’t the only one. Caleb, Richard, and Jonathan had that look on their faces too, and one by one, people followed their gazes to him. It was then that Nate realized that the music had completely stopped. 

And almost everyone had heard him.


	7. Chapter 2 - Wolf in Sheep's Clothing (Scene 4)

There was one fairly basic standard to concert etiquette. When a person was part of the audience, they never wanted to be that one disruption that everyone complained about after, much less during the performance. Yet, somehow, Nate found himself in that very situation—where hundreds of strangers, the media, and the stars he idolized were there to witness it all. It seemed as though a perfect storm of humiliation had brewed just for him.

A strange sense of foreboding came over Nate as Jonathan and Caleb looked him up and down. While they had initially had the same reaction as most everyone else, their faces now tipped to a sort of guarded expression that Nate couldn’t begin to describe. All he could gather was that they did indeed recognize him. 

“My, my, look at what we have here.” A wide smile spread across Jonathan’s lips. “Nathan Sharp, we meet again.”

Nate stared at him in bewilderment. “‘Nathan Sharp’?” he repeated, the name sounding foreign on his tongue.

The earth went deathly still.  _ That’s not my name.  _ It can’t have been,  _ couldn’t _ have been real—there was no possible chance two of the most famous  _ Masked Records _ members were actually addressing him. The sentence rang in his head as he searched the circle, praying that he’d been mistaken, that the person they’d be speaking to was somewhere right behind him.  _ That’s not my name. _

“Yeah, I’m talking to you,” Jonathan said loudly into the microphone. Then, he lowered his voice, speaking with a venomous edge. “Funny. After all this time and all that’s happened to you, you’re still walking around and causing trouble.” 

Nate glanced around. The dizziness he had experienced earlier returned as he took in the sea of eyes turned towards him. Caleb shrunk back and fixed his attention on the microphone in his hand; Richard stood motionless; Shawn, in particular, looked especially mortified. A few faint mutters rose from the crowd.

“I’m so sorry,” Nate tried to say, but hysteria nearly swallowed the words whole. “I didn’t mean to disrupt anything. I swear, I’m just—”

“—Quiet.” Jonathan made a slashing motion across his throat, and the crowd immediately fell back into silence. They held their breaths as they waited for what would follow, but Jonathan did nothing; he simply stayed there, a deep frown contorting his features as he pinned Nate down from across the block. Then, something shifted in his face, and he moved. The crowd parted as he walked through, stopping directly before Nate and bending down so that they stood at the exact same height.

“Allow me to ask you something.” Jonathan’s voice was dangerously low, veiled with a soundless threat. “What do you believe the most important part of our label is? The fortune? The fame? The  _ freedom?” _

“The fakeness?” Shawn muttered from beside him. Jonathan stood up to his full height and gave Shawn a withering glare.

Nate was entirely speechless. As Jonathan loomed over him, he felt a forceful surge of hostility that bore not a semblance to the man he knew. “Uh...family,” he finally sputtered, hardly able to hear himself over the blood pounding in his ears.

At that, Jonathan was very visibly taken aback; he blinked and sucked in a large breath, causing his nostrils to flare. “A family,” he repeated slowly. “I like that, Sharp. I like that a lot.” He inched closer with another smile on his face, and Nate could feel his breath as he spoke. “But as a matter of fact, no. Here at the  _ Masked Records, _ we value our  _ fans.” _

The audience—sans Nate and Shawn—burst into applause. “WE LOVE YOU, JONATHAN!” one of them roared, and Jonathan basked in the glow of their praise.

“Damn right you do!” Jonathan shouted back, laughing.

Shawn grimaced. “Is this an advertisement or a dictatorship campaign?”

Nate waited for the cheering to die down. "I've always been a fan," he mumbled, feeling his heartbeat quicken as he forced himself to look at Jonathan directly in the eyes.

All of the background noise immediately came to a halt. Jonathan stiffened and his jaw went taut, baring his teeth in an animalistic snarl. From the few inches between them, Nate could feel the rage simmering under his skin, sending waves of tremors down his body as though he was barely holding back a scream. Instead, however, Jonathan simply smirked. "Oh, Nathan. We know  _ all _ about that.”

Nate didn’t dare respond. There was nothing he could say to rectify what he had done—he’d disrespected not only the artists and the audience, but  _ Will Ryan’s honor _ —and Jonathan was not holding back at any level to degrade and humiliate him for it. And, quite frankly, he knew he deserved it.  _ Nobody _ interrupted the  _ Masked Records _ —and certainly not a lowly outcast of society like him.

Still in the center of the circle, Caleb cleared his throat. "I-I think y-you've scared him quite enough, Jonathan," he stammered, speaking so quietly that his microphone barely caught what he said. "No need to make him sh—uh,  _ crap _ his pants before—"

Jonathan turned to face him and narrowed his electric green eyes. "Christ's sake, Caleb, you can say the full word. This isn't YouTube anymore." 

A laugh rose from the crowd.

"YouTube. What a joke, right?" Jonathan added with a laugh, fully addressing the audience. "There, I said it.  _ Fuck _ that stupid website. I cannot believe it's taken this long for the world to move on from it, but I suppose I can forgive your collective naivety. Who needs YouTube when you have us?"

Once more, the audience responded with cries of support, and momentarily, Nate felt a pang of envy. This was all he had ever wanted to accomplish when he applied to the  _ Phoenix Records. _ Countless days he’d spent locked in his room daydreaming for this moment, and here he was, somehow so much farther away from attaining it than when he’d originally started. 

Nate turned his back on the crowd and motioned for Shawn to follow him. "I think I ought to get going."

"Oh, Nathan! How silly of me. I almost forgot about you." Jonathan ran in front of him and blocked his path. "Stay right there, love. I want to make a point."

Shawn scoffed.  _ "Another _ point?"

"Of course. There's always so much to say, but never quite enough time," said Jonathan, waving a hand dismissively before turning back to the rest of the audience. "I believe it's safe to say that we've established a few rules about our business. The first is that we don’t play by yours. The second is that we keep ourselves at a respectable distance. And the third...well, the second rule doesn’t mean that we aren’t always around you." 

Nate took a quick glance at the back of the crowd. In the outer edges of the ring, several of the other  _ Masked Records _ members stood like guards in perfect symmetry, wordlessly observing the spectacle before them. Two of them closer to the center briefly caught his eye, and Nate swore he saw them nod at him.

"But there's one thing about us that none of you are aware of," Jonathan continued, his voice echoing across the block. "We are not—and never have been—limited by reality. When we started out, we were told that it was fundamentally impossible for a business with no sponsors, no old money, and no conventionality to grow into anything worth admiration or respect. And yet here we are. Everything we have was built because we had a vision, and we tended it until it spread throughout the city and became the life force of the very industry we reside in. For an artist, we are more than a business. We are your dream."

_ Dream.  _ The word made Nate’s heart skip a beat. It was like they  _ knew _ —as though they’d been right there with him, reading every last thought he’d had as his life spiralled out of control. He couldn’t help but wonder if in that moment, Jonathan and the other  _ Masked Records  _ members could  _ taste  _ his excitement radiating off of him in waves.

Jonathan smiled. "How would you like to perform with us, Nathan?"

Nobody made a sound. Nate blinked rapidly to make sure that he hadn’t been imagining things, but even then, he felt like he was floating in a fantasy. "You're joking."

"Not in the slightest." Jonathan gestured to Caleb and Richard. "Come next to us, Nathan. Feel what it's really like to be among the best."

_ Was this a test?   _ Nate stared blankly at Jonathan, unsure of how to react. He remained rooted to the ground until the two unknown  _ Masked Records _ members fell behind him and practically forced him forward.

"N-no,” he protested as they ushered him along. "I can't do this. I'm sorry. There's no fucking way I can just—"

Nate stopped mid-sentence upon being placed directly between Jonathan and Caleb. He could feel Caleb flinch away, but he hardly gave it a second thought. Standing before him were at least a hundred people—if not  _ more _ —and ninety-nine percent of them hardly even knew his  _ name.  _ The experience was so overwhelming that Nate thanked whatever sliver of luck he had left that he didn’t pass out.

Jonathan nodded at the pair of strangers. "Get set up for the song, you two," he commanded, and they went away. "Richard, hand over the guitar."

Richard tried giving Nate his guitar, but Nate was so frozen in his stupor that his fingers refused to cooperate. They struggled for a few seconds before Richard finally forced it into Nate’s hold, and he patted his hand before moving aside. “Good luck.”

Nate glanced desperately at Jonathan. "I don't understand what's going on."

"Then I suppose this will be quite interesting," said Jonathan, sounding not the slightest bit deterred. He frowned. "Come on, Nate, you're a talented man. It's about time someone starts noticing it."

Nate let out a harsh laugh. "Me? Talented?" When he didn’t get a response, he leaned in and lowered his voice. “Jonathan. I haven’t touched a guitar in over two months. I’m not special, I’m not talented, and most of all, I’m not even  _ liked. _ I’m not worth your time.”

“Then allow me to make you feel otherwise.” Jonathan stepped away, fully exposing him to the expectant crowd and the rest of the  _ Masked Records. _ “Come on. For an old friend. You might be surprised about what you don’t know about yourself.”

Nate could hardly miss the hidden depth in his words. It seemed like everything Jonathan said to him carried a world of meaning that only he could comprehend—a trove of mystery no one else held the key to. He thought back to the  _ Masked Records’ _ so-called rules, and the numerous instances he’d caught them observing him earlier that day.  _ We are always around you.  _

Before, he’d had the feeling the entire event was planned; now he was certain. He was as certain about that as he was that they would have invited him to perform even if he hadn’t interrupted them. From the beginning, they’d sought him out, found him, and offered him an opportunity that few in the entire music industry possessed. Whatever it was, they saw something in  _ him _ , and they wanted to see him demonstrate it.

Nate took a deep breath. “Alright.” 

“I knew you wouldn’t be able to say no,” said Jonathan. He gave Nate a nod, then held the microphone to his face one last time. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome our old and longtime friend Nathan Sharp to the stage.”

The audience didn’t applaud. They seemed more confused if anything, and Nate didn’t really blame them. He knew they were all likely thinking the same thing— _ who is this kid, and why in the fuck is the  _ Masked Records _ paying him any attention?  _ Truthfully, he didn’t have any idea how to answer that question, but in that moment, he didn’t care. He knew what he needed to sing. 

He sang into the microphone.  _ “Stand straight, keep it right on track; gotta step on the outcast, your deck is stacked. _

_ “Talk soft right behind their backs; before you know it, you’ll be one of them. _

_ “Keep kind words up out your mouth; throw your name in the mud, now you’re heading south. _

_ “Don’t let them see your face; a facade’s what you need for the fame, so blame the game.” _

Nate strummed the first chord, and he was faintly surprised that he still could do it. A rush of confidence flooded through him that’d never felt before. He never realized before just how exhilarating it was to perform once an established group of professionals empowered him to do so. It felt so damn  _ good. _

As the performance went on, the last of his lingering doubts evaporated—if only for a little while—like the rain on a hot summer day. The audience appeared to slowly shed their suspicion of him, and Nate amusedly realized that they were hardly paying any focus on the lyrics at all. That was fine with him. He’d had this song shelved for weeks, ever since he first made the choice to leave  _ Give Heart Records _ and pursue something larger in the music industry. This was his opportunity to sing it, to put into words all the thoughts and emotions that had been passing through him.

_ “I never meant to fit this mold. _

_ “I’m simply doing what I’m told. _

_ “I’m painted up and watered down to a shell that’s hollowed out…” _

Just then, Nate felt it. He scanned through the rows of people as he sang, and his heart sank upon finding a familiar face in the back of the crowd.  _ Andy. _ If looks could kill, then Andy definitely would have stabbed him, burned him at the stake, personally dragged his charred remains to Hell itself, then revived him just to do it all over again. It took everything within Nate to look the other way.

The  _ Masked Records _ were ever so silent as they watched the performance. Whether or not they were attentive to the words he was singing, Nate didn’t know, but he could feel them listening. And that was what mattered to him.

_ “Before I knew, I became one of them.” _


	8. Chapter 3 - House of the Rising Sun (Scene 1)

It was long past midnight when Nate and the rest of the  _ Masked Records _ arrived at the mansion, and the sky had grown pitch black. It was difficult to see more than the building’s outline in the darkness, but Nate still felt a spike of excitement within him. They’d walked a short distance to get there from the bus they’d taken—which Nate was thankful for—but with all the sudden turns and the clusters of trees they’d passed by, he had no way of telling exactly where outside the city they had ended up. Still, knowing how little forestry existed within a short bus ride from Los Angeles’ center made him impressed that it had never been discovered before.

Jonathan stopped beside him at the front doors. “Welcome back to the club, Nathan. I’m sure you were quite eager to step foot in here.“

Nate blinked. “I...I guess.“ He kept his eyes trained on the door handle, staring until it seemed to scream his name. The rest of the  _ Masked Records _ watched him expectantly as they seemed to wait for him to open the door. It seemed odd that they were leaving the gesture to him—something about it didn’t feel right.

Jonathan nodded in the direction of the doorway. “Go on, then. Take a look around. We won’t mind.“ With a slight edge to his voice, he added, “So many of us have been looking forward to meeting you.“

At that, Nate took a deep breath and slowly pushed the door open. A million different senses overwhelmed him in an instant. Jonathan hadn’t been lying when he’d promised him a party—what had once been seemingly an elegant, regal ballroom had been turned into a contemporary-style dance floor. All of the curtains had been closed so there was no hint of the rainbow-colored strobe lights spinning inside. Dining tables had been filled to the brim with more food and drink he’d ever seen in a room at the same time. There had to have even been some sort of sophisticated smoke machine hidden out of view, because a thick, hazy green fog covered the entire floor.

For a few minutes, Nate kept to the outer edges of the crowd and simply watched the  _ Masked Records _ converse among themselves. None of them seemed to notice his eyes following their every move. His position made him realize how sorely out of place he was among the others, an outsider compared to their tightly-woven group of business partners.

“Are you usually this dull, Sharp?” asked a voice behind him, and Nate turned around to find Jonathan with a drink in his hand.

“I-I don’t know,” Nate answered, stammering. He didn’t know why, but Jonathan’s presence made him feel significantly more uncomfortable than before, like the other man was trying to dig for a secret he was hiding.

Jonathan was silent for a moment before he turned and made a motion with his arm. “You two. Come here. Say hello to our guest.“

A second later, the two  _ Masked Records _ members that brought Nate onstage earlier emerged from the crowd. Jonathan turned back to Nate. “Nathan, I believe you’re already acquainted with Joel and Igor.“ He gestured to them individually—first a short man whose ribs stuck out under his hoodie, and then to the man who towered above him with dark hair and broad shoulders.

Igor Gordienko—once known on YouTube as a musician called  _ TryHardNinja _ —stepped forward. “Mr. Sharp. How nice of you to join us.“ He extended his hand. “We’ve been expecting you.“

Ignoring the anxiety sweltering in his chest, Nate tentatively shook Igor’s hand. He didn’t miss that Joel Berghult—formerly  _ RoomieOfficial _ —still hung back, watching the interaction with his teeth bared in a snarl. “You have?“

To his surprise, Igor stayed silent, and it took Nate a moment to realize that Igor and Joel had been among the members watching him earlier that day. The words  _ Mr. Sharp  _ echoed in his head—that peculiar name had returned, and now all of them were using it. He opened his mouth to ask about it just as another person entered through the front doors.

“Excuse me, excuse me, I’m try—“ The blonde woman pushed past the group before she suddenly stopped in her tracks. She turned around and dropped her jaw.  _ “—Nate?“ _

Everyone in the room stopped what they were doing at once. The music screeched to a halt and drenched the space with an agonizing silence, one so intense that Nate could hear his own heartbeat. Somehow, their meaningful, curious stares smoldered him so much worse than the hundreds of eyes that had laid upon him during the performance. 

The blonde woman—who Nate knew without a doubt in his mind was his old friend Amanda Lee—backed away, her eyes so wide they were larger than the moon.

“Oh my god!“ The shriek of a young woman broke through the silence as she bounded across the floor. Nate could hardly react before her arms wrapped around his body and held him tight, smothering him into a hug. “It’s you. You’re back. You’ve come  _ back.“ _

Nate was so blindsided by the sudden contact that he struggled to respond. “...Hey.“

With the single word, the  _ Masked Records _ sprang into action. They rushed across the ballroom and gathered around him until he was locked in a tight circle, one vaguely similar to the ring of fire their audience had formed at the performance earlier. Now that they stood mere feet from him, Nate could make out some slightly familiar faces in the crowd. The ones he recognized looked so much brighter, younger, and healthier than he’d ever seen them before, to the point that it was almost impossible to know who they were for certain.

“Holy crap. You’re so  _ short.“  _ The woman hugging him giggled. “And you’ve lost so much  _ weight, _ too.“

Another woman with long, wavy light brown hair approached them. “Wow, Sparrow, who’s your friend?“ She looked Nate up and down with wide blue eyes.

_ That’s Sparrow?  _ Nate gaped as he looked down at her. He’d hardly caught a glimpse of her face through the silken mop of curls on her head. This was the same girl that he’d bonded with filming the  _ Yandere Simulator Musical _ —it seemed like an eternity ago now.

“He’s our newest member, Malinda!“ Sparrow Rayne exclaimed, squeezing Nate even tighter with her arms practically snaked around his waist.

Caleb frowned “That’s...not set in stone.”

“He’s  _ cute.  _ Can I have him?“ asked Malinda Kathleen Reese, ignoring Caleb entirely.

Sparrow pouted. “I knew him  _ longer.“ _

By then, Nate had recovered enough from his daze to fight back against Sparrow’s grip. Ever since he was young, he  _ despised _ most physical contact, and it was an oddity that was only made worse that evening from the paparazzi incident. It didn’t help that Sparrow’s arms around his frame served as a painful reminder of his poor health. He’d hardly bothered to eat much since the accident, and it took a toll on his body until he barely weighed more than  _ Joel _ did.

“Easy now, girls. That’s no way to treat our guest.“ A  _ Masked Record _ s member with dirty blond bangs that covered the middle of his forehead—AJ Pinkerton—stood beside Sparrow and stared crossly at her. Sparrow stuck out her tongue and finally let Nate go.

“Nathan? Is that you?“ Peter Srinivasan, the last former  _ Random Encounters _ member, joined the group and smiled. “I thought I recognized all that punk. We thought we’d never see you again.“

Nate simply shook his head in disbelief. “It’s good to see you.“

The  _ Masked Records _ members continued to clamor around him, and Nate grew increasingly dizzy trying to keep up with the four or five conversations going on at once. Igor met his eyes across the floor and pushed through the crowd. “Alright, alright, everyone, that’s enough,” he demanded, holding out his arms to force people back. “Single file line. You’re making him anxious.“

Nate shot him a grateful look.

At last, the attention towards him waned a little and most of the members disappeared back to the dance floor. There was one member, however, who had yet to greet Nate. While the reception had mostly been warm so far, Amanda remained in the far back of the crowd, trembling and holding her arms to her chest. Nate managed to catch her gaze, but she immediately looked away.

Nate frowned and turned to face Peter. “What’s up with her?“ he asked, pointing at Amanda. The blond woman now had her back turned to him and her head angled to the ground.

“Hmm?“ Peter asked distractedly.

“Amanda.“ Nate leaned closer to Peter’s ear and lowered his voice. “She seems...off.“

Something shifted in Peter’s features before he shrugged and pulled away. “Looks fine to me,“ he said nonchalantly. “Probably just shy. She’ll come around.“

“Amanda isn’t shy,“ Nate protested, but nobody was listening to him. Peter stepped away and went back to his business, slinging an arm around AJ’s shoulders and laughing at Sparrow’s jokes. Frustration simmered in Nate at the unsatisfactory answer, and he looked at Amanda one last time before he put it behind him. A different  _ Masked Records _ member pulled away from Malinda and stopped before him.

The man narrowed his eyes. “So you’re  _ NateWantstoBattle.“  _

Nate’s breath hitched in his throat as he gave the man a second glance. Unless he was terribly mistaken—and couldn’t have possibly been—the celebrity he was talking to was Chase Holfelder. Along with Will, Jonathan, and Caleb, Chase was arguably one of the most prominent musicians in the label. His sandy blond hair and ice blue eyes seemed to glow like a halo under the colored lights.

“Chase,” Nate managed to squeak out, “I-it’s an honor.“

“As it is you.“ Chase dipped his head. “We members of the  _ Masked Records _ wanted to extend our congratulations to your performance tonight. Considering how sudden it was, I was surprised that you were able to pull something like that off at such an impressive scale. Keep it up and you might find yourself in a very good position.“

At Chase’s praise, numb shock tingled under Nate’s skin. “You really think that?“ he whispered.

“Wait,  _ what _ did he do?“ Sparrow turned her head in Nate’s direction and then looked at Jonathan. “You didn’t tell us he was going to perform  _ too.” _

“That’s because it wasn’t our plan.“ Jonathan smirked. “It was a...rather genius last-minute move on my part.“

The  _ Masked Records _ lit up with excitement and gathered around Nate again.

“Oh, do tell.“ Malinda scooted her chair forward, causing Nate to cringe at the screeching of the inevitable marks that would be left in the hardwood floor. “Were there fireworks? Parades? An innocent bystander’s untimely and unfortunate death?“

Nate blinked. “Uh…“

Jonathan walked up beside Nate and laid a hand on his back, steering him across the room. The  _ Masked Records, _ of course, followed. Before Nate could flinch away, Jonathan stopped him in the middle of the living room, which was openly connected with the kitchen. He gestured to the sofas and chairs. “Have a seat, everyone. Mr. Sharp has plenty to tell you.“

**Author's Note:**

> This story is also on Wattpad, which is the place of my top priority for posting the fanfiction. My account name is Havingfun_ISKEY. Updates coming regularly.


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